


Ghosts of the Past

by boredandtired



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Hurt, Johnlock - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach, TW: suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:33:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredandtired/pseuds/boredandtired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds it nearly impossible to deal with life without Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of the Past

It’s been three years now. My therapist says that these daily texts are keeping me from moving on, but that’s not it. This isn’t something I can move on from. You aren’t something I can move on from, Sherlock. And even if I could, why would I want to? –JW

The morning started like any other. John dragged himself out of bed after yet another sleepless night and sent a text to Sherlock. He knew it was hopeless, he saw Sherlock fall. He saw the blood, splattered on the pavement. He heard his own voice tearing through his memories, even after all of this time. “Sherlock! Please, I’m a doctor. I’m his friend, let me through! Sherlock, no..” The words played themselves again and again in his memory, never letting him hope that it had all just been a sick nightmare. Too real to allow any semblance of sanity back into his life. He dragged himself into the shower, hoping that the shock of cold water in the morning may give the strength he would need to get through the day. Not that it really matters, John thought. Nothing mattered to him anymore. He didn’t really need the energy, anyway. It wasn’t as if he had anything to do that day. After Sherlock’s death, he was useless to the Yard. Of course, Lestrade and Molly made efforts to keep in touch with him, mainly to be sure that he was handling the grief in a healthy way. There were only so many missed phone calls and unanswered texts that they could take though before they realized that John did not want to be contacted. Eventually, they gave up on trying to check in with him. He was sacked from his job at the surgery for his poor performance. He didn’t mind, he hadn’t really enjoyed the job anyway, or so he would tell himself. After his shower, John would lay on the couch in the sitting room, an untouched cup of tea on the coffee table, and try, to no avail, to achieve some notion of peace of mind. And so his day would continue, just like all the others, unable to eat, unable to sleep, barely able to muster the strength to sit up. Just spending all day curled up by himself, thinking, hoping, and being haunted by memories of the past. The low-blood sugar and contestant lack of sleep affected John more negatively than he dared hope. He was plagues by insomnia-induced hallucinations, usually in the form of the man who was once the world’s only consulting detective. His mind was cruel, putting words in Sherlock’s mouth that would appall the genius, had he been able to hear them. “What’s wrong John?,” the ghost would taunt, “Why not just solve your problem once and for all?” “Too afraid to follow me, John?” “What a coward of a soldier you’ve become, John. Locked up in the flat all day. Too afraid to join me.” “You’re nothing without me, John, and you know it. Just do it. Take the leap. Join me.” The pestering was relentless, but John did all that he could to remind himself that this was not an accurate way to remember Sherlock, it was only a cruel trick triggered by his PTSD. On days where he felt particularly weak, he would take himself up to the roof of St. Barts, sit by the ledge, and just look down, wondering what the fall would feel like. Would it hurt? Perhaps it would be worth it…He always found himself back at the flat though, compelled to go on, even for just another day. Today, it seemed, would be one of those days. John managed to pull himself off of the sofa and dress himself, his pants nearly falling off, even with the belt. He put on what was once his favorite slightly too snug, jumper. It hung from him loosely, much too big. It didn’t matter though; John couldn’t be bothered to buy clothes that fit. Hell, he couldn’t even be bothered to eat, what was the point? “You’re a coward, John. You know you are,” Sherlock hissed at him as he flagged down a taxi. “St. Barts Hospital, please,” he said to the cabbie, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’s there to be afraid of? Whatever there is out there, it’s got to be better than this pathetic excuse for living,” Sherlock whispered to him. The hallucinations had been becoming more and more intense lately. What had once been a vague voice in the back of his mind became a complete, far too realistic visual of Sherlock. His grim, reinvented Sherlock would haunt him constantly, saying the things had had never before dared think. Sometimes though, John almost agreed with the ghost. He was, after all, only a division of John’s subconscious. Perhaps he was right. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. “Of course it’s not a bad idea, you git. Just pluck up the courage and do it!” John sighed, his mind made. He thanked and paid the cabbie as he pulled up to the curb. He looked up at the hospital from the pavement. Surely, it couldn’t be very painful. It would likely be death upon impact. John made his way up the steps of the hospital, writing a final text to Sherlock on his way. 

I know that you aren’t able to read these, but that’s alright. Thank you for the inspiration, the joy, and the time of my life. I’ll see you soon. –JW

John opened the door to the roof and stepped out. The air was clear, the sun was bright…it would have been a beautiful day, really. John stepped up on the ledge, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. This was it then. Just one step and it would all be over. No more memories, no more concerned messages, no more hallucinations.  
“John, what are you doing up there? Get down, right now.”   
John cocked his head to the side. That was odd, he would think that Sherlock would prompt him to jump, just as he had been doing for far too long.   
“You really are an odd hallucination, you know,” he laughed. There was no point in staying quiet anymore now that it was over. He could talk back, he could laugh, he could cry, he could scream, he could do anything he wanted before taking that final step. “First you tell me to jump, to follow you into the dark, and so I am, Sherlock. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Now you’re contradicting yourself. I must really be losing my mind if I find you contradicting yourself…the man who was never wrong…”  
“Stop it, John. This is madness and you know it.” John felt a Sherlock grab a handful of his jumper, trying to hold him back. Wait a moment…John’s eyes snapped open in a mixture of shock and fear. He had heard his apparition before, he’d been able to see it clear as day, but never before had he been able to feel Sherlock. He’d tried in the past, but to no avail; memories, after all, are intangible.   
“Stop that. You can’t touch me. You don’t exist. You’re dead, Sherlock. Just a ghost of my past. You’re a hallucination caused by PTSD, I can’t feel you!” John talked fast, working his way from a murmur to a yell. This was impossible. This could not happen.  
“I’ve got you. Step down from the ledge, John. It’s me, I’m alive and well, do you see? You’ve no reason to jump, so please step off.”  
It was a trick, it had to be. The cruelest one yet. Sherlock couldn’t be alive, he had personally seen him die. He took his pulse, saw his bloodied skull, he’d been there when they buried his damn body.   
“I can’t do that, Sherlock. You know I can’t, you’ve been setting me up for this the whole time. I’m not letting an illusion fool me into thinking that I can have you back. I will have you back soon though. I promised you I would.” John began to lift his right leg. This was it, he was finally going to be reunited with Sherlock. The real Sherlock, not some cruel, projected, mental image. He felt a tug on his jumper as he fell backwards, off the ledge onto the roof. He landed on the concrete with a light thud. He looked up to see Sherlock’s face hovering over him.   
“If it was me that prompted you to do that, then listen to these next instructions carefully,” John sat up to face Sherlock. “I don’t want you to listen to a single word I say ever again. That is how I wish to be honored, do you understand?” John nodded, dumbstruck. Sherlock turned on his heel and walked towards the door, disappearing behind it as though he had never been on the roof at all. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a movement. He reached out to grab it, but his arm passed right through the projection. “You idiot,” Sherlock’s image hissed, “you can’t physically touch your own screwed up imagination.”


End file.
